Preston took Frost to one side. 'We need to cooperate on this — pool our resources, share our information.'
'I'll send over what we've got,' said Frost. 'It amounts to sod all: no descriptions, no leads, nothing, but it might help. I'm pinning my hopes on catching the sod in the act.' With a brief nod he ducked through the flap on his way back to his car.
Bill Wells looked up as Frost marched over. 'Solicitor's here. I've put him in No. 2 interview room. He doesn't like being kept waiting.'
'He kept me waiting long enough,' said Frost. He unbuttoned his mac and loosened his scarf. 'Any sign of the flaming Welsh wizard?'
Wells shook his head. 'He never came back here, Jack. I even sent someone round to his digs, but no-one in. I reckon he's on the nest somewhere.'
'He probably thinks having it away is more fun than having his goolies chewed off by me,' said Frost. 'If he does condescend to make an appearance, I want him.' He pushed through the swing doors and made his way to the interview room.
Fosswick, the solicitor, had been to an official function and was still wearing evening dress under his thick black overcoat. He was annoyed at being dragged away and even more annoyed, after hurrying through that damned fog, to be dumped in a drab, cold interview room and told to wait. A scruffy little man who matched the scruffy little room came in and introduced himself as Detective Inspector Frost.
The solicitor acknowledged him mournfully. He was hoping for someone far more senior and impressive to make his evening less of a waste of time. 'I don't know why you've dragged me down here, Inspector. We rarely do criminal work and I hardly know the man. We dealt with the purchase of his house about three years ago, and that's about it.'
'It's not me dragging you down here, sir, it's your client. We're holding him for questioning in connection with the abduction, rape and murder of a seven-year-old girl.'
The solicitor's face was expressionless. 'I see. And what makes you think my client is involved in this?'
Fosswick listened intently as Frost outlined the details, a growing expression of concern and distaste on his face. This was not the sort of case he wanted to be involved in. He pulled out a gold fountain pen and made a few notes, telling himself that he would pass the details on to someone else first thing in the morning, someone more used to dealing with such sordidness. 'You haven't actually charged him yet?'
'No, sir, but it is our intention to do so.'
Fosswick replaced the cap on his pen. 'I'd now like a few words with my client.'
I'll go and get him for you.' Frost opened the door, then closed it again. 'The other little girl might still be alive, sir.' He held up a photograph of Vicky. 'If you could persuade your client to tell us where she is…'
Fosswick scowled. 'I am not here to do your job for you, Inspector. My first duty is to Mr Weaver.' He looked at the photograph and his expression softened. 'However, I'll see what I can do.'
Not such a bad old bastard after all, thought Frost as he made his way to the cell area.
The shrill, urgent ringing of a bell sliced through his thoughts. The alarm from the cell area, usually rung when an officer was being assaulted or a prisoner was taken sick. At first he took no notice. Probably the drunk causing trouble. The uniformed boys were quite capable of handling crises like that. He was aware of the sound of running feet and voices raised in panic and the other prisoners banging their cell doors and shouting. Over it all Bill Wells calling, 'Cut him down, quick…' then, yelling up the corridor, 'Get an ambulance.'
Frost raced down to the holding area. The door to Weaver's cell was wide open. Two uniformed men were bending over a figure on the floor, one pummelling the chest, the other giving the kiss of life with Wells looking anxiously on.
Frost stared down at Weaver, skin blue, neck strangely elongated. 'Bloody hell! What happened?'
'He's topped himself,' said Wells, sounding furious | as if this was personally directed against him. 'The silly sod has hanged himself.' He pushed past Frost and yelled again down the corridor. 'Where's that 1 bloody ambulance?'
One of the PCs stood up. 'No hurry for the ambulance, Sarge. He's dead.'
12
'No-one can blame me for this,' bleated Wells, making his case to anyone who would listen. 'I checked him a few minutes ago and he was all right.' The banging and kicking of doors from the other cells reached a crescendo. 'Shut up!' he yelled, to little effect.
'How could he hang himself?' asked Frost, kneeling by the body and feeling yet again for a pulse, hoping against hope that Weaver was still alive. Wells pointed. On the floor lay a coil of white nylon cord, the knotted noose at the end cut where they had removed it from Weaver's neck.
'Where the hell did he get the rope from?' Wells demanded. 'I searched him when you brought him in this morning, Jack — you can testify to that?'
'Yes,' grunted Frost, bending and picking up the cord which had a beige plastic tassel at the end. It looked familiar. He frowned. Where had he seen it before? Then he remembered. Shit! The hospital. The cord on the Venetian blind in the mother's room. When he left Weaver alone, the sod must have cut off a length — there were scissors on the trolley by the bed. Bloody hell! Mullett's going to have a field day over this.
Frost ordered the uniformed men out of the cell and sat down on the bunk bed. 'What a bloody mess!'
Wells sank down beside him and stared down at the body, shaking his head in disbelief. 'It's all bloody Mullett's fault, sending half our manpower away to help other Divisions. We should have a proper custody officer. I'm having to do two jobs. I haven't got time to do them both properly.' He looked imploringly at Frost. 'There's going to be an investigation, Jack. They'll be looking for scapegoats so let's get our stories straight. I searched him — you saw me.'
Frost lit up a cigarette. 'Don't worry, Bill. If there's any blame going, I'll cop the lot.' He expelled a lungful of smoke. 'When did you last look in on him?'
'About a quarter of an hour ago.'
'He's been dead more than a flaming quarter of an hour.'
'Half an hour ago then,' snapped Wells, hysterically. 'All the jobs I have to do, I can't be expected to remember exactly when.'
'You entered it in the log?'
'I haven't had time. Those flaming phones have been ring, ring, ringing non-stop.'
'Then do it now.' He flicked ash on the floor, just missing the body.
'He left a note,' said Wells. 'He says he didn't do it.'
'A note?' Frost's head snapped up. This was the first he had heard of a suicide note. 'Where?'
Wells pointed. 'Taped to the inside of the cell door.'
Frost slammed the door shut and there it was, stuck to the door with a strip of surgical tape, scrawled on the back of one of Weaver's mother's old hospital charts. Weaver had planned this all out in advance as he sat in that room, squeezing the hand of his dying mother. Leaving it stuck on the door, Frost leant over to read it:
Dearest Mother:
I didn't do it. They are making me out to be some kind of perverted monster. That Inspector Frost is framing me. He's bullying me to confess to something I didn't do. I am innocent, but I can't stand the shame.
Goodbye mum. See you in heaven.
Charlie
'In heaven!' snorted Frost. 'In bloody hell more like it. He'll be able to complain to Mullett personally when the time comes.'
'I don't think anyone else has seen it,' confided Wells. 'We could get rid of it.'
'I might fake evidence,' said Frost, 'but I don't throw it away. Leave it.' He stood up and wearily wiped his face with his hands. 'Let's break the sad news to Hornrim Harry.'
Mullett, lips tight with anger, stared coldly at Frost. 'You left him, unattended, in a room with scissors and cord, a man you suspected of being a child killer? You left him?'
